There is
something mysterious in a crowd, most of all in a crowd at night. The
throng has simultaneous perceptions and movements, a joint sense of
power or of fear, a circulation of consciousness as complete as that
which exists in the nerves of every individual. Thousands of men, of
whom each alone would act differently from his fellows, are all
irresistibly impelled to think the same thoughts, to feel the same
emotions, to yield to the same influences, or to join in the same work
of destruction. But no one of them all can tell why he so feels, thinks
and acts; the mystery of the crowd is upon him, and sways him whither
it will, powerless, half unconscious, and wholly irresponsible.
The deep cathedral bell tolled the hour of seven. Before the strokes
were all counted, the hum of the multitude had swelled to twice its
former strength, and every one felt himself jostled a little by his
neighbour. Then came the sharp, clear voices of those who directed the
forming of the procession, the shuffling of many feet, and the muffled
but irritated movements of those who had to make way. Then rose a
sudden flare of light in a corner of the dark mass, followed quickly by
another and another, till many hundreds of torches were aflame,
sputtering, smoking and sending up tongues of flame into the black air.
Again a word of command, and the even tramp of footsteps began to be
heard, a mere patter as of big raindrops upon stones at first, but
swelling gradually, and increasing, till the sound roused great echoes
from the glowing buildings, while the blazing pitch flared up, brighter
and brighter, into a broad sea of flame that flowed away in a narrow
stream of fire as the great company filed out of the square into the
street beyond.
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